


From Commander to Legendary

by Noscere



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms, xcom 2
Genre: Central is the Commander's biggest groupie, Crack, Endless shitposting, Gaming, Logistics of abusing save states, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7645921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noscere/pseuds/Noscere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somebody turned up the difficulty during a modded game of XCOM 2, and couldn't take the heat. The solution? Save scum like mad.</p><p>Pray for Bradford's sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stage One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bradford is forgetting something, but what could it be? The Avatar Project?

If the war were a video game, Bradford would have some words for the idiot who decided to crank up the difficulty. The same idiot probably added mods. Why couldn’t the bastard stick to cosmetic mods? Sure, the Avenger crew would be filled with mish-mash sci-fi rejects, but at least that would be harmless!

 

Bradford remembers the days they would encounter only three or so patrols of ADVENT Troopers on a simple relay hacking mission. These days, hacking the relay brings squadrons of Vipers and Sectoids scurrying to XCOM’s position. The battles to retain Resistance Havens were once three-hour affairs. Nowadays, they drag into day-long sieges, with Bradford heading the evacuations and the Commander cycling XCOM’s officers on the field to save as many refugee lives as possible. And it’s not enough – it’s never enough – they can only stem the tide of death.

“They say war never changes,” he says to his Commander after a long day. Bradford stirs his coffee and sits back against the Quarters’ sofa. “Bullshit. Weapons change, the fields change, the soldiers change – the only thing that doesn’t is the death.”

“It will end one day,” his superior says. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“I’d like to see that.” He rubs his eyes. “What could you do?”

“There are many different ways to fight a long war.”

Bradford raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t press his superior for answers. His Commander always knows what to do.

 

* * *

 

Bradford is forgetting something.

It comes in flashes, whispers at the back of his mind: there are soldiers walking around the Avenger who died, should have died in a failed VIP rescue. _You should have died_. _They blew up. Why are they still alive_?

He doesn’t dare raise these concerns with the Commander. How would his superior react? More likely than not, remove Bradford from his post. There is no room in this war for a brain-damaged veteran.

 

* * *

  

The Central Officer would be swearing if he still had breath, but his tongue is dry and his throat is parched. They’re dead. After assaulting the Blacksite, XCOM had drawn ADVENT’s attention. ADVENT had shot XCOM down, over the Ural mountains. XCOM’s finest had done their best – but in the end, there were too many, at long last, an alien charged up the loading ramp.

He can hear fighting below-decks, as XCOM struggles to push out the invaders from their base. It’s far too late. The Hologlobe has been plunged into darkness, and its systems returned to alien control.

“Everyone is dead.” There is nothing but fatigue left in his voice. Twenty years of hunting the XCOM Commander couldn’t save humanity. “We have no more soldiers to send out. There’s no one left but us.”

The Commander doesn’t bother answering.

A Berserker tears down the Hologlobe access corridor, fists smashing into the hallway Lily worked so hard to restore.

Bradford brings up his gun.

Suddenly, the world warps and catapults him up – electricity crackles and something like a disc whirrs, he’s broken down into his component parts, and then atoms restructure themselves to form his gun and hands and the very air twists inside his lungs – it should feel like he’s flying, but it feels more like falling.

“ _Reload and restart_ ,” he thinks he hears the Commander say, and then there is nothing.

 

  **Reload save 13:** **Avenger Defense, 13:01:12**

 

“Excellent work, Commander.” Bradford pulls up on the controls. The Avenger roars to life below his feet and ascends into the rain-soaked skies. “Looks like the Avenger lives to fight another day. And everyone lived.”

“I do my best.”

“How did you know?” he asks, as he guides the Avenger past the cloud cover. Clear light filters through skylight at the end of the Bridge. “If Milow hadn’t taken that shot,” he shudders, and the ship shudders with him, “the aliens would’ve gotten onboard.”

“Risk management.” The Commander’s hands tighten on the Hologlobe bannister. “I took a risk, but I’m glad that it had this outcome.”

Bradford turns on the autopilot. He looks over his superior officer. The Commander is pale and wan, more like a college student on their fifth night without sleep than the Resistance’s tactical mastermind. There’s something to the straight lines of that thin mouth that doesn’t sit right with the Central Officer. Something is wrong, and he doesn’t know what.

“Looks like the twenty years I spent looking for you paid off,” Bradford says lightly. “Don’t think I could’ve pulled this op off.”

The Commander musters a smile. “Only doing my job.” The smile suddenly disappears. “Wouldn’t war be so much easier if we could just alt f4 and restart?”

“I… guess? I was always more of a Civilization player than CS:GO.” Bradford shrugs. “At least, I hope you’re planning for a military victory.”

Something in the Commander’s face eases. “Indeed I am.” The Commander turns away, but not before Bradford hears, “but isn’t this cheating? I didn’t earn this…”

He brushes the concerns away. They’re alive, and that’s all that matters.

 

* * *

 

“Commander, the aliens continue to make progress on the Avatar project,” Bradford says over dinner. The spoon pauses halfway to his superior’s mouth, slopping creamy white soup over the front of the Commander’s uniform. “If we want to stop them, we’ll have to move fast.”

His superior rubs away at the stained shirt with a napkin. “I really wish I could move while you’re reminding me."

“It’s not rude to keep doing whatever – daub it, don’t rub it in.” Bradford wets a napkin in his cup of water. “No, don’t do – that looks like an entirely different sort of stain, Commander.”

“If you flew better, the toothpaste wouldn’t have gone everywhere,” his superior grumbles as Bradford cleans off the spill. “Wish I could just reset this.”

“Can’t always get what you want, sir.”

“I suppose.” His Commander sighs. “Thanks, Central.”

“Any time.” Bradford looks around at the canteen. “Eat your dinner, men, and stop smirking. Nothing to see here.”

 

* * *

 

Another month full of train raids, relay destructions and Resistance Haven sieges goes by. Bradford pushes the feeling of déjà vu to the back of his head – _not my job_ , he rationalizes – but he’s not the only one.

“I feel like I’ve died thousands of times before,” Kelly says slowly. Her hands cup the mug of mulled ale sitting on the bar counter. She clutches it against her chest, as if that could breathe warmth and life back into her body. “But somehow , I just can’t die. Someone’s tugging me back to life every single time.”

“Are you upset that you can’t die?” Bradford manages to say without slurring.

“Hell naw. It’s just…” Kelly mimics drawing a string tight between her fingers. “Feel stretched. Drawn out. I should’ve gone by now, but… I’m not complaining.” She casts her eyes up. “Guess the Almighty’s got a plan for me.”

Bradford shrugs. “Don’t know too much about godly plans, but I’ll drink to that.” His tablet beeps. “Aw, hell…”

“Something wrong, sir?” Kelly asks.

“Gotta go speak to the Commander,” Bradford grumbles. He finishes his drink and lumbers off to find his superior. “Damn aliens can’t give us a break.”

 

* * *

 

“Commander, the aliens continue to make progress on the Avatar project. If we want to stop them, we’ll–”

The Commander glares at him.

Bradford wordlessly hands his superior a towel.

“I _know_ , Bradford. Thank you for telling me for the tenth time in a row.”

“No need to shoot the messenger.” Bradford spreads his hands. If it were possible to angrily dry oneself off, the Commander is sure managing it. “Sir, I’m trying to help you. There’s a newly constructed facility in the Philippines that we should hit.”

“Next time, let me get out of the fucking shower first,” his superior hisses, the syllables blending into the whine of hot water in the background.

“Well, sir, I can’t exactly unsee this,” Bradford says with a grin. “Could use a hard reset right now.”

The Commander shoves him out of the washroom. The towel drops to the floor. Two wet handprints bloom across Bradford’s chest. “The shit I put up with. I should’ve rage quit long ago.”

“Well, I’m glad–“ He coughs. “I mean, XCOM is glad that you’ve stuck by us.”

His superior tuts. “Oh, Central. Keep saying that, and people will think you’re obsessed with your Commander.”

“The nerve of them,” he says with mock indignation. “Glad you’re manning our operations… since… well, 3 soldiers killed is still a fair rating for me.”

The Commander reaches out to clasp his shoulder. “Thanks, Central. I’m glad you have my back. Just… next time, don’t drag me out of the fucking shower.”

“Duly noted, sir.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a few more weeks before Bradford’s memory goes fuzzy again.

They’re on an item recovery mission – some data on ADVENT’s latest pet project – Rosalez takes the shot on a Codex – not quite killing it, so it splits into two. The clone disappears and alerts an ADVENT patrol. Two seconds later a football squad of Mutons breaks out of the nearest outpost. The Menace team is already facing down the two Codexes, a Gatekeeper, several ADVENT Troopers and two Vipers. They decided to get the fuck out of grenade range. The team scatters, but one cocky Muton raises its gun and aims at Rosalez as the Specialist dashes for cover.

The Muton’s shot is true.

Rosalez’s head bursts into scarlet mush.

In less than a minute, everything goes to hell.

Rosalez’s death kickstarts a chain reaction around the AO: Melnick panics and shoots the nearest moving object, which happens to be the team’s Psi Officer Evans. Evans, already badly injured from a run-in with the roided-out muscle bag (AKA the Berserker Queen), sends out a pulse of psionic energy to detonate the grenades on the Muton’s body. Evans misses and instead detonates the grenades on the team’s grenadier, Bešlagić. Bešlagić – though a seasoned veteran of the Invasion, a decorated soldier from the 10th Special Purpose Brigade – does not survive the high-velocity shards of metal punching through his bulletproof vest. The sniper, Delela, is showered and peppered with gore and deadly shrapnel. His death sends Delela into a screaming, shuddering panic. She runs from the gory mess that used to be her commanding officer, straight into a patrol led by a Gatekeeper. Delela barely has enough time to scream before the Gatekeeper’s plates unfold as if someone had disassembled a disco ball. The green plasma instantly vaporizes the dark-skinned woman’s head.

Bradford stares in horror.

The Commander swears up a storm, in tongues he barely catches before they morph into another language. When the Commander finally draws breath, Bradford only has enough time to say, “You’re outnumbered! Menace 1-5, call an EVAC and get out of there!” before he’s falling, falling–

“I QUIT!” he hears, and then the clatter of a keyboard against the floor. “GOD! FUCK YOU, RNGESUS!”

 _What the fuck is going on?_ Bradford wonders, before he stops thinking at all.

 

   **Reload save 23:** **Item Recovery, Novgorod, ADVENT Patrol Zone 8, 23:19:56**

 

Rosalez brings up his plasma cannon, ready to drill a hole right through the Codex’s brain, when the Commander suddenly says, “Rosalez – move to the meridian and take cover behind that truck.”

“Sir, I’ve got a clear line of sight – I swear, it’s a 95% hit!”

“You don’t want to be there if you don’t kill it,” Bradford says, but he sneaks a look at his commanding officer.

Grumbling about his K/M ratio, Rosalez moves as ordered.

“Bešlagić, you see that ADVENT outpost?” the Commander asks. “I want you to use all of your grenades and turn it into ash.”

“Uh… okay, sir,” the Grenadier says, as he loads his launcher. “I don’t see anything, but…”

“Do as your Commander orders.” Bradford pulls up the thermal cameras just to make sure. “Sir, I hope this is more than just property damage…”

“Just watch me,” his superior says.

Five grenades soar through the air, crashing through the outpost’s windows.

They click, and unleash synchronized destruction.

Fire races through the outpost, blowing out doors and the remaining glass – and in the inferno, Bradford hears the dying screams of eleven Mutons. The thermal scans confirm their deaths.

“Holy shit, eleven?” Bešlagić crows. “Thanks, Commander. Suck it, Rosalez, I’m on top now!”

Bradford clears his throat. “Celebrate when the AO is clear, Bešlagić.”

The Grenadier is still cheering while his squad executes the rest of ADVENT’s grunts. Rosalez keeps up a steady stream of insults until Delela calls for an EVAC.

“Dude, you realize if SOFY hadn’t killed those Mutons,” Delela says as she clips herself onto the rope, “you would’ve been toast. Eleven Mutons? Yeesh.”

“Great. Now I owe Bešlagić a beer, _and_ I lost the kill count to him.”

“Still grumbling about your kill/miss ratio?” Melnick asks. Rosalez’s body cam captures the Ranger’s smirk.

“Go fuck yourself,” Rosalez says without heat, but he claps Bešlagić on the back nonetheless.

Back on the Avenger, the Commander stares at the body cam screens, clearly bewildered. “I’ll never understand our men’s bonding rituals,” his superior says.

“They nicknamed one of their comrades, _shit’s on fire, yo_. You think this is bad?” Bradford tuts. “Try deploying with sex-starved, trigger happy soldiers in a hellishly hot base in the middle of Iraq.”

“I don’t want to imagine that.”

“Dicks. Dicks everywhere. And let’s not talking about men jacking it in the shitter.” He shrugs at his superior’s disgusted stare. “On that note, the perpetrators will report for cleanup duty tonight.”

“They’ll be there forever. We need a real-life Photoshop tool,” the Commander grumbles, “to get that graffiti off the washrooms.”

“Like an eraser?”

“You’re a real riot, Central.”

 

* * *

 

“Commander, the aliens continue to make progress on the Avatar project,” he says as the Commander selects their newest destination. The Hologlobe freezes in place and zooms over to the Avatar Project Tracker. “If we want to stop them, we’ll have to move fast.”

His superior officer glares at him. “It would be a lot faster, _Bradford_ , if you would stop fucking freezing the Hologlobe terminal!”

“It freezes when I start speaking,” Bradford protests, “just trying to see if I’ve got new orders.”

“I have new orders for you, _Central_.” The Commander shoves him away. “Shut the fuck up, get the hell out of the Hologlobe and let me do my job! God! At this point, I’m just waiting for you to drop dead! You’d be more useful as fertilizer than my personal alarm clock!”

Bradford takes an involuntary step back.

The Commander’s face immediately falls into regretful lines. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, John, I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry–”

The Central Officer walks away, head swimming.

 _I trusted you_ , he thinks bitterly.

The free-fall claims him, and he does not fight it.

 

   **Reload save 34:** **Hologlobe, 50:18:34**

 

“Commander, the aliens continue to make progress on the Avatar project,” he says, guiding the Commander over to the Hologlobe. Onscreen, the tech zooms in on the Avatar Project Tracker and adds a glowing red bar. “If we want to stop them, we’ll have to move fast.”

“Yes, Central.” The Commander takes a deep breath. “Let’s move to assault the facility in the Nigerian interior.”

Bradford shakes his head. “Sir, that’s Namibia – wait.” He groans. “You’re never going to let that go, will you?”

“When I drop dead,” the Commander says lightly. His superior officer takes a stance next to the Hologlobe bannister. “When you are ready, Central.”

Bradford moves to the Avenger’s controls, but stops. “Sir?”

“Yes, Central?”

“Is everything all right? You seem a little off.”

His concerns are waved away. “I have you as my second-in-command, managing all the finicky details. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

The Central Officer hesitates. “If you say so, sir.” He makes to put his hands on the controls, then stops. “Commander? If you ever need to talk… well… I’m here.”

His Commander smiles.

“Of course, Central,” and although his superior’s tone is formal, Bradford still hears the fondness permeating the words.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Alien Hunters and Shen's Last Gift DLC in the next chapter.
> 
> If there's one thing to love about XCOM 2, it's that no matter the time or the place, Bradford will always be there to remind you of the Avatar Project Countdown.


	2. Stage Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which existential and inappropriate crises are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bradford. You've gotta chill a little bit. Go play some Civ 6.

Bradford has many regrets. Hiring Vahlen, for one. Chasing after Vahlen, for the second. Investigating Vahlen’s secret laboratory and snake breeding experiment, for the third. Getting killed by a fucking Neonate Viper that’s squishier than your average rookie?

 _Crushed to death by a snake_ , he thinks, _this is a furry’s wet dream_.

And then he’s falling, his men screaming as the void swallows him–

 

**Reload Save 09: Alien Nest Mission, 74:01:00**

 

The world returns to him, slowly. Bradford yawns, but it’s hard to draw breath.

“Move! Come on, Bradford, stay with us!” the Commander shouts.

_I had this bad dream about becoming an emo band songwriter… and furry porn…_

He shakes his head, and focuses on the white blur before him.

A muscular, scaly body still encircles his own, threatening to crush him like a soda can in a giant’s fist. The Neonate Viper flicks its tongue at him, the black tissue whipping away mere inches past his nose.

_Oh. Well, there you go. There’s the furry porn. Not my kink._

“Get moving, Bradford!” the Commander shouts. “Struggle, fight, do anything! Get out of that bind! You can’t die here! Snap out of it!”

He really wants to tell his superior to shut up.

 _I need to sort out my priorities_ , he thinks as he struggles to reach the machete on his back.

Kholi’s GREMLIN shocks the Neonate Viper holding the Central Officer prisoner. “Got you, sir!” the Specialist says triumphantly, as Bradford collapses.

“Thanks, kid,” he coughs, and tunes out the Commander’s panicked worrying in his ear. “God, is that what I sound like?”

Kholi nods slowly.

 

* * *

 

Bradford advances to the skulls pierced through by spikes. The Neonates hiss, tasting the air with black tongues. He aims, the gun solid in his hands. He fires, and the Neonate in his way collapses, screaming as it dies. Bradford runs around a stack of flaming skulls – Viper interior decorating had much to be desired – and takes a position to fire at another neonate Viper. 

It’s at that moment that the Viper King decides to say hello in the good old Viper way.

The Central Officer struggles for breath, but there is ice in his lungs, puncturing through the thin alveoli until he’s drowning on dry land, pulled under by the ice melted by the heat of his organs.

He’s falling.

" _And that's for constantly taking away my control of the screen_ ," he hears someone grumble.

" _Hey! Go away, that's my save!_ " the Commander yells. " _Go do your cathartic killing elsewhere!_ "

 

**Reload Save 09: Alien Nest Mission, 74:14:00**

 

Suddenly, he’s back behind the outcrop of reddish rock, staring down the Neonate in his way.

Bradford sizes up his competition. The multipurpose assault rifle on his back beckons to him, whispering of bullets shredding through the Neonate Viper’s chest to send it sprawling onto the dusty desert ground.

He stops.

_Bunch of babies around. Where’s their parents?_

The Central Officer whisks the machete off his back.

“I’ve killed everything that walks and crawls on this Earth,” he hisses, and begins to murder the Neonate Vipers crawling out of the crevices.

“Always the dramatic one,” he hears Tygan whisper.

The Commander doesn’t respond for a while.

“Let him have his action movie one-liners. If it keeps him happy.”

The Viper King soon slides out of a portal, but Bradford is out of range when it does.

 _Huh. Could’ve sworn I should’ve died to that_ , he thinks as the mutated alien shoots a jet of ice at Kholi.

“Vahlen created a Viper King,” the Central Officer says, “just what we needed. Shoot the shit out of it!”

 

* * *

 

“Bastard!” 

Bradford’s ribs hurt like hell, and the pain does not cease when the Commander marches up and seizes him in an embrace so tight, Bradford could swear there’s Viper King blood running through those veins.

“Fucking idiot!” The Commander’s face is buried in the crook of his neck. Bradford cautiously pats his superior on the back. “You died, you died, we almost lost the mission because you fucking died–“

“Sorry,” he squeaks. He looks around at the Menace Team – Melnick’s giving him the thumbs up, that bastard – Kokoren is giggling like a madwoman – damn it, he’s supposed to be professional. “Sir, you’re making a scene.”

“Do you know how many times I had to-” The Commander suddenly withdraws. “Damn it, Bradford, you can’t make me worry like that.”

“I didn’t die, Commander.” He taps his chest. “See? Still beating and breathing, like a real war machine.”

The Commander stifles a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “You and your stupid Avenger chatter.”

Someone wolf-whistles. Bradford does his best “I’m-you’re-superior-stop-fucking-around” glare.

“I’ll have you know that I’m great at parties.” Bradford waves his hand at the Menace Team. “All right. Let’s meet up in the situation room, and figure out how to deal with Vahlen’s new pets.”

 

* * *

 

Bradford walks into the labs, searching for the Commander. Damn it, if only his superior could wear the XCOM standard earpiece at all times! 

What he finds instead is Tygan, hurriedly stuffing waxed paper into a waste bin. The dissection table is smeared with globs of white sauce and stains of red ketchup like substance.

The Central Officer marches over to the Chief Scientist. “What on Earth–“

Bradford reads the label on one of the wrappers. _ADVENT burgers_.

“Central, this isn’t what it seems–“ 

“It was you.” Bradford’s hand goes to his knife. “It was you all along. You’re the one stuffing ADVENT Burger wrappers into my console!”

Tygan holds up his hands. “I fear you are mistaken, Central, I am merely cleaning–“

The lab door slides open, revealing the Commander. “Oh, for fuck’s–“ His superior marches over. “Before you execute anyone–“

Bradford pins the chief scientist against the lab bench. “Who are you working for, Tygan? I don’t want another Vahlen onboard!”

“You have the wrong man!” Tygan protests, struggling against XCOM’s Central Officer. “Yes, the burgers are delicious, but–“

“Then who’s smuggling them on board?” Bradford shakes Tygan. “Answer me!”

The Commander is barely visible in his peripheral view, but his superior looks exasperated.

“I can’t believe I’m resetting for this,” the Commander says, and the world dissolves into colored pixels.

 

**Reload Save 23: Avenger Science Labs, 82:11:39**

 

Bradford shakes his head, cursing to himself. Where’s the Commander? The Resistance Council has a private message for his superior’s eyes only. 

He taps his ID card into the lab.

The doors slide open, revealing the Commander – busy wiping down the dissection table – and Tygan, loading a decomposing Faceless corpse onto a cart.

“Ah – Central,” the Commander says, hand moving to the earpiece, “I’m sorry, reception is terrible in the labs–“

“No harm done, but you’ve got a priority message,” Central says. He looks at the table. There are globs of white fluid and red liquid – either that’s really bad ketchup, or blood – spattered across the surface. He decides not to ask.

“Thanks for covering for me, sir,” Tygan mutters as the Commander passes by.

“Any time, old friend,” his Commander replies.

 _Not jealous. Absolutely not jealous_ , the Central Officer thinks as he leaves the labs. _They’re just good friends. Really good friends._

 

* * *

 

“What was that all about?” he asks at dinner.

The Commander grins. “Tygan lost hold of his scalpel and took a face dive right into the Faceless paste.”

Tygan gives his superior a look of extreme betrayal. Lily coughs into her salad.

 

* * *

 

XCOM meets Lily Shen’s psychopathic little brother three days later. The Menace team is advancing towards the safe room while Lily deals with her father’s last gift. 

Unfortunately, that means they are too far away when the neurotoxin begins seeping into the chamber, in noxious, toxic clouds.

Shen is safe in the clean room, but her teammates must race for that haven. One by one, they fall and succumb to the gas. Julian wasn’t lying when he said the gas could bring Berserkers to their knees. Lee is screaming when his mouth is unclogged – otherwise, he’s coughing up thick globs of lung. Suleiman’s gun empties out its magazine, as its owner’s finger is locked on its trigger. Kelly is writhing like an electrocuted snake, tearing chunks of flesh from her neck. Lily is crying out, dashing from door to locked door as she tries to find a way to help her dying comrades. But it’s no use – one by one, the Menace Team dies, and the Chief Engineer is left alone with an asshole AI and her father’s Chappie stand-in.

“Fuck, no!” The Commander slams two fists into the Hologlobe console. “That is bullshit! Nothing about this facility said – fuck this shit!“

Bradford falls.

**Reload Save 12: Lost Facility, 90:11:27**

 

“Sir, you’ve always told us to not turtle together,” Lee protests as the group advances to the clean room. “We probably look like a piñata for those turrets.” 

“Well, this is an exception,” the Commander says tersely. “Make sure the VIP is safe. Don’t want Julian to bring out any new tricks.”

Menace Team returns safely, lungs intact, with a newly minted Corporal in tow and a robot bodyguard for Shen.

 

* * *

 

“We dub thee Alt F4,” Ivanova says, slapping the Corporal’s patch onto Suleiman’s dress blues. “Welcome to the big leagues.”

“Alt F4?” Manuel asks.

“Computer command, back before ADVENT,” Bradford says, straightening the patch on Suleiman’s chest. “Used to force a quit on Windows.”

Kelly mimes grabbing her back and limping forward with a cane. “Back in my day, we didn’t have no fancy GREMLINs or console commands! We had to shut the game off to restart it. And by God, we liked it!”

Bradford ruffles Kelly’s hair, mussing up the dark ponytail. The Ranger squirms away. “Kid, you’re far too young to remember blowing the cartridge. I think only the Commander and I are old enough.” He points at Melnick and Rosalez. “You two. No dirty jokes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Rosalez says with a shit-eating grin.

“No promises, sir,” Melnick says. The Commander stares pointedly in the bulky man’s direction. “I mean, absolutely, sir. I’m gonna be a paragon of innocence!”

“I don’t get it,” Leong says. The kid is far too young for war, born five years after the Invasion, but he’s a crack shot with a pistol and XCOM doesn’t have time for ethics. “Why Alt F4?”

“When Alt F4 here finally misses his shot,” Ivanova says, clapping the young sniper on the back, “the Commander’s gonna throw a shit-fit.”

Bradford glances at his superior.

The Commander shrugs. “I'm betting a lot on his aim.”

“Gee, no pressure,” Suleiman mutters. “There’s only three mutated aliens rampaging around.”

 

* * *

 

“Commander, the aliens continue to make–“

“It’s four fucking AM!” The Commander shields pupils blown wide from the light. “Fuck off an’ lemme sleep!”

“Progress on the Avatar project,” Bradford continues, tugging the blankets from the Commander’s form. His superior whines and curls up into a ball. “If we want to stop them, we’ll have to move fast.”

“Why can’t they ever move at a reasonable hour?” The Commander glances blearily at the bedside clock. “I just – one hour! A one hour nap! Is that so much to ask? We’ve been at it for days – all I want is this fucking bunk!”

“Sorry sir, but the aliens don’t sleep.” The Central Officer manhandles his Commander into a sitting position. “Up and at’em sir! We’ve got a mission in an ADVENT priority area–“

“Suck a dick.” The Commander gets up regardless. “How are you so awake?”

Bradford presses a mug of hot coffee into his superior’s hand. “Vodka. Ketamine. Elerium. Coffee. I’ve selected the officers best suited for this mission – it’s a VIP extraction – and they’re in the Hangar, ready to go. All you need to do is look over my choices and man the mission.”

“God, I love you.” Somehow, the Commander manages to down the scalding concoction. His superior immediately looks more alert. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably suck a dick,” he deadpans. “Gotta pay for all the ammo we use somehow.”

“The things we do in the name of XCOM.” The Commander suddenly frowns and reaches over to straighten Bradford’s lapels. “If you’re gonna drag me out of bed, at least look presentable.”

“We’re going to kick alien ass, not on a date.” The Central Officer bats his superior’s hands away. “Move it, sir.”

“Yes, _Commander_ ,” his superior says, and Bradford tries to ignore the flutter in his gut.

 

* * *

 

The mission goes excellently: Girac and Leong will be in the AWC for two weeks, but everyone’s alive. After the engineer is settled in, and promotions are handed out, Tygan assures the Central Officer that he can look after the Hologlobe for a few hours. Bradford makes a beeline for his bunk. The Commander is already snoring away in the private rooms by his own.

He can’t fall asleep.

Head pillowed on an old sweater, Bradford thinks about the days before the war, when the rooms beside him were empty and all he could hear was the steady hum of the life support systems. It was easier to romanticize the Commander then: a fearless leader who always knew what to do. Bradford would be the second-in-command who kept the machine well-oiled and moving.

The reality is different. His Commander is a fountain of sass and bad jokes off-hours, and his men a bunch of clods who exasperate him to no end, but he prefers it over the fantasy. Well, most of the fantasy. There’s an old dream that helped him sleep, back when he was still shuddering from withdrawal.

His hand slips down into his boxers.

After another successful mission, he would grab the Commander for a well-deserved nap. Still jittery with adrenaline, neither of them would be sleepy. He imagines going down on the Commander: slow licks and hard sucks chipping off the thin veneer of professionalism, until his superior was thrashing and twisting beneath him. He wonders how his Commander would taste – slick with salt, heady with musk, or clean like the soap in the showers? Bradford’s hand quickens. His Commander would probably offer to reciprocate. “ _I’ve got to take care of my men_.” He’d roll his eyes at the innuendo, then offer himself up. He imagines the clever tongue swirling around the head of his cock, then his superior’s mouth would envelope his shaft, forcing him to muffle his own groans. Some part of him wonders if he’s still flexible enough to reach down and fuck his superior with his fingers. God, that would be hot.

His Commander wouldn’t scream – too professional for that. He’d change that soon enough. The subordinate would hoist his superior on top of him and thrust up. Somehow, his Commander would still be in charge, still giving out orders and setting the hard, driving rhythm despite being a panting, moaning mess. Bradford stifles a groan and cants up into his hand. His superior would lean down and bite his neck, muffling any screams in his skin. “ _Come for me_ ,” his Commander would hiss into his ear, body still rocking in the throes of climax, “ _c’mon, Central, be a good soldier and come for your Commander_.”

Bradford has never been one to disobey orders.

He comes hard in his hand, with a moan he’s pretty sure the Commander would hear if not snoring away next door.

 _Oh god. What am I doing?_ he despairs, trying his best to hide the mess. _I’m a professional. I shouldn’t have these thoughts._

The fantasy does its job. Bradford drifts off to sleep, feeling sick.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell happened?” Bradford presses the icepack to the Commander’s bare back, where a set of long, blotchy bruises sprout in a sickly purple-green. Similar bruises litter other patches of skin. “You were supervising the GTS, how could you get hurt?”

His superior groans. “They wanted to get Girac some practice. Then Melnick and the Rangers decided to initiate me in close quarter combat. Ow… god, I can’t feel my legs…”

Bradford digs the heel of his hands into the knotted trapezius, to work out the kinks. “Should carry a fire extinguisher with you. It helps a lot.”

“I feel like they ran a fucking train on me.” The Commander whines and bites down on the pillow as his hands go particularly close to one of the bruises. Bradford tries to ignore that visual: the Commander wrestling Melnick to the floor, knocking the machete out of the Ranger’s hand, sweat running down– _stop thinking about it_. “Bright side: I won’t be taken captive unawares. Downside: I think Melnick has Berserker blood in him.”

 _Not the time_ , Bradford chides himself, _not the time. Don’t think about that story._

“If you want, I could tutor you. You should be prepared for any emergency.” The Central Officer lifts the ice pack to check the bruise. “But I won’t go easy on you.”

“I’m gonna stick with guns,” his superior says, “I think I’ve had enough of swords – wooden or not – for a lifetime.”

“Hmm. I could convince you otherwise.”

“Never though I’d see the day.” The Commander grins at him. “CO John Bradford, a fan of close range– ow! Okay! I’ll stop making those jokes!”

 

* * *

 

“Rookies,” the Commander groans after Zabkar hits a gas station instead of the ADVENT Captain right in front of him. The resulting explosion takes out half Menace Team, and apparently Bradford as well, because he’s falling once again – 

 

* * *

 

“Commander! We’re losing civilians left and right!” 

“Central, that explosion splattered him everywhere, but it wasn’t that bad…”

Bešlagić, distraught that the unplanned gas tank explosion killed a civilian, panics and alerts an ADVENT patrol consisting of a Codex, a Viper and an ADVENT Trooper to his position.

“Annnd reloading,” the Commander sighs. Bradford drops into free fall.

 

* * *

 

How do six XCOM soldiers – three colonels, a captain, a lieutenant and a psionic Adept – handle Vahlen’s newest experiments? 

Very badly.

It was a standard Council mission. Everything had gone well in the past month: the Viper King was dead, they had assaulted three facilities, the Avatar Project was only at one tick…

While bundling the VIP towards the EVAC zone, Subject Alpha and Beta – an Archon King and a Berserker Queen, _because of course, Vahlen had to tinker with the most aggressive alien on earth_ – make XCOM’s acquaintance.

There is no sensation of falling, only solid regret as Bradford watches the Berserker maul the last survivor of the Menace Team.

 

* * *

 

XCOM’s finest collect in the bar and memorial. Sodden in rotgut and moonshine, they honor the fallen. Tomorrow, when they are sober, they will have to reestablish contact with the Swedish Resistance Cell.

At some point, Bradford pulls the Commander aside. His superior has walked around like a MEC clipped by a blue-screen round. “You did tha best you could, shur,” he slurs. “Noshing mor’.”

His Commander merely looks at the Memorial, where six new photos have joined the faces frozen on the wall.

“I didn’t save… them. How could I?” The Commander’s hands ball up into fists and slam into the hallway. The wall visibly dents from the impact. “I… damn it, I should’ve done better, I–“

He catches his Commander’s hands before they can hit the wall once again. “Commandur. Can’t do everythin’. Not enuff deter- determinashion in tha world.”

“I should be better,” the Commander whispers, and sinks to the ground. “I know better. I’ve got… damn it, it’s not enough, they’re dead, and we’ve made so much progress but I can’t–“

Bradford wraps his arms around his superior and offers up his bottle of rotgut. His Commander is warm, warmer now that alcohol runs through Bradford’s veins and croons into his ear.

“Hey.” The Commander’s first name slips from his lips. “Drink n’ feel better.”

“I can’t. I- I have to go back, I have to fix this _somehow_ –“

He’s drunk, he’s tired, he’s half dead from crying. Bradford poured his heart into teaching Bešlagić how to steady his grenade launcher, wrapped up Girac’s calluses after Ranger practice, soothed Evans’ fears after a bad session in the Psi Labs… and they’re all gone now. The men and women he groomed into hardened soldiers are all bags of beaten flesh, probably being touted as victims of XCOM’s atrocities on ADVENT TV at this very moment. Their killers are most likely wreaking havoc in the City Centers. And he’s almost glad for that. Finally, ADVENT will know the cost of bringing aliens into their fold.

The joy taints his fallen soldiers’ memory – it taints their mission to save Earth’s civilians – and it almost makes him reconsider this war.

The Commander pushes the bottle away. “We – we have to get to the Hologlobe. I’m gonna fix this.” His superior stands. “This – this can’t ever happen again.”

And suddenly, he’s falling.

 

**Reload Save 31: VIP Extraction, Freetown, 100:08:46**

 

“I feel like I should be dead,” Girac says as she limps off the transport. “That Archon King really should’ve pile-drove me straight into Hell.” 

“You mean, John Cena’d?” Bešlagić still sounds equally nervous. “Yeah… we really cut it close… and those bastards are still running around.”

“At least you’re here,” the Commander says, looking gaunt and drawn and tired.

“Hey, thanks for pulling us out of that sir,” Suleiman says. “I thought I was a goner.”

“Better you than me!” Evans chirps, and is immediately rewarded with a backhanded slap from Kelly. “Ow! I was just being an ass, I’m glad you guys are back.”

Bradford sneaks a look at the Commander. He has faint memories of getting piss-drunk in the bar, and mourning the Menace Team – but that never happened, didn’t it?

 

* * *

 

One night, while sleeping, Bradford hears the Commander screaming. 

“ _What do you mean, the save’s corrupted?! Solomon, fix your shit! This is literally unplayable!”_

He tries to get up, but he ends up falling and forgetting.

 

* * *

 

Whatever’s causing Bradford’s memory loss, it doesn’t save XCOM when the Resistance needs it most.

They’ve made so much progress. Tygan and Shen have constructed the Shadow Chamber. They discovered the gruesome contents of the Blacksite vial, developed plasma weapons, assaulted the ADVENT Forge, created powered armor straight out of a 60s sci-fi flick… but it wasn’t enough.

XCOM loses their A-Team assaulting the Codex’s coordinates.

“What’s this?” Kokoren asks between sobs, “fucking iron man mode?”

“I really thought we’d end the war without losing anyone else,” Leong says, staring at Evans’ picture on the Memorial. “Is that stupid of me?”

“Maybe God grew tired of us,” Rosalez says, uncharacteristically serious. “Maybe we’ve fucked up too many times, and this is His way of saying _you’re on your own_.”

“What if we don’t really exist?” Ivanova knocks back her tumbler of whiskey. “What if we’re all just pixels in another ADVENT simulation?”

“Fuck no.” Kholi shakes his head. “Our lives – they have meaning, we exist – we’re important, we’re more than just cosmic playthings–“

Bradford quells the theological discussion before his men can have an existential crisis.

He finds the Commander just outside the bar, staring hollowly at a tablet with two bottles of moonshine at the ready.

“I failed them,” his superior says, offering him one bottle, “and because of my dumb ass, they’re never coming back.”

“So you’re just gonna give up?” Bradford sits. He uncorks the bottle against his knife’s holster. “Doesn’t sound like you, sir.”

“I don’t have anything more to give,” the Commander mumbles. “I’m tired, John, I… I just wanna forget today ever happened. Can you do that for me?”

Bradford offers the moonshine. “When in doubt, alcohol is always a solution.”

 

* * *

 

He wakes up, sore in all the right places: a hangover buzzing away at the back of his skull, the cramp of his arms wrapped around a warm partner, phantom aches along his thighs and belly, blotches of dull pain littering his neck… His partner is nestled against his front, heat radiating from every point of contact. The Central Officer sighs contentedly and draws his partner closer.

_Finally… a little peace. The war’s over, and I–_

_Wait. The war?_

Bradford wakes up, and does not recognize the bed or the sheets. He does, however, recognize the cadence of snuffly breaths beside him.

 _Oh, shi–_

He immediately retracts his arms and searches the bed for his clothes. No such luck – his weapons harness is near the entrance to the Commander’s Quarters, his socks are strewn across the sofas, his boxers are AWOL entirely, his shirt is ripped in three places and peeking out from underneath a pile of empty bottles–

“God fucking damn it. Some soldier you are,” he grumbles as he ruffles through the blankets in search of his boxers.

The Commander stirs. “Wha’ happen?” his superior murmurs, putting a hand on his thigh. Oh god, this isn’t the time – he’s a fifty-five year old man, not some cocked-up teenager. “John?” 

The memories come swarming back, as persistent as a nest of fire ants: disastrous mission that left the A-Team dead and half of the Avenger in the memorial and bar – a bottle of rotgut that was more methanol than ethanol – at some point, he’s pretty sure he tried to deep throat the bottle and the Commander was egging him on – _“C’mon, John, that the best you got_?” in the most commanding tone his superior could have used, and good soldiers follow orders –

“Fuck me.” Bradford rips the covers off and stumbles to collect his clothes. His shirt is unsalvageable, and the zipper on his pants is missing a few teeth. “No, on the other hand, don’t fuck me. That – fuck, this was – I’m sorry, sir, it won’t ever happen again –“

“’s early. Slow down.” His Commander yawns and catches his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Don’ understand… why’re you so upset?”

“Nothing major, except that I _fucked my superior_.” Bradford wrangles his shirt back over his aching shoulders. “Damn it, I’m so sorry sir. This was a breach of protocol. It will never happen again.”

The Commander wakes up more. “Bradford?” The formality returns to the voice he craved hearing for twenty years. “I… I still don’t understand.” The sheets slide off his superior’s body, revealing a map of scars and bruises. “I don’t remember much. Last night, I thought you wanted this?”

“Sir, put on a shirt.” He finds the dark grey Commander’s slacks beneath the sofas and tosses them over. God, Bradford wants to die then and there. So much for good soldiers.

“All right.” Bradford averts his eyes as the Commander aids his search for more clothing. “Talk to me, Central,” his superior says in that same commanding tone – damn it, it dragged him into bed once but he won’t do it again, even if his lower brain screams otherwise. “I’m missing some of the puzzle. I thought you’ve wanted this for a while. We’re not military anymore.”

“No, but I still pride myself on my professionalism. I wish it never happened,” the Central Officer says quietly. “I’m… I’m sorry, Commander. I can’t do this. You are my superior and – this just isn’t appropriate. It’s a violation of every fraternization rule in the book. It looks like an abuse of your power – even though I’ve wanted this – and it doesn’t reflect well on you.” He draws a deep breath. “I… I want the men to respect us. I want them to know their superiors’ primary focus is the mission and their lives, not… boning each other senseless.” He rubs his neck, where he can feel the ghosts of the Commander’s teeth. “No matter what I think or want, this can’t happen again.”

“Always the soldier.”

Bradford turns. “You wouldn’t respect me if I weren’t.”

The leader of XCOM nods: once, twice. The sheets shift around scarred shoulders. He thinks of the knot of white scar tissue on the column of his Commander’s throat, now flanked by two purpling bruises.

“If it makes you happy, old friend,” his Commander says, and Bradford drops into free fall.

 

 _Fuck, I have to reload a month’s worth of progress_ , he hears the Commander sigh. _The things I do for my men_. _But if keeps the A Team alive and Bradford happy… it’ll be worth it._

**Reload Save 12: Commander's Quarters, 118:42:10**

 

He wakes up, sore and feeling every inch of his fifty-five years: vomit’s acrid sting piercing his mouth, the ache of his over-extended arms from sleeping in a position that would do a contortionist proud, a hangover hammering at his head, eyes puffy with salt residue… 

Bradford stares up at the ceiling of his quarters. Of course. Last night, most of XCOM’s A-team died recovering the Psi Gate ( _no matter how many times the Commander reloaded_ , a treacherous voice whispers.) Chryssalids. Why did it have to be Chryssalids. Only Melnick made it out, and the man is suffering severe PTSD. They might never field him again.

He drags himself out of bed and into the shower. Although every cell in his body screams for sleep, he has a duty as XCOM’s Central Officer.

Somehow, he manages not to spend the entire day underneath the showerhead. Bradford heads down to the mess hall. At this hour – after such a disastrous mission – the mess is nearly empty. Only the Commander is present: back to Bradford, spoon clinking against a ceramic bowl.

He suddenly thinks of wrapping his arms around his superior and burying his face in the Commander’s dark grey shirt. The Central Officer could have that, couldn’t he? They were the last remnants of a dying breed: they had seen the invasion, they had never helped engineer monsters for ADVENT… He longs to hide away from the war for a few seconds.

The Central Officer grabs a roll of bread and sits in the far corner of the mess hall. He stares without seeing at the far wall. God, it sucks being lonely. He has seen team wipes before. He knows that there is no relationship appropriate for him onboard: the Commander is his superior, and everyone else is a subordinate. God. His Army buddies would send him out to whore around. But they’re dead, and so is Shen, and Vahlen is as good as.

 _God, I’m a mess._ He thinks of his superior, doling out orders to move the Psi Gate and comforting Melnick despite the chaos at base. _How the fuck does the Commander do it?_

“Avenger to Central.” The Commander sets a cup of coffee before him. “What’s got your head in the stars?”

Bradford shakes himself. “Hmm? Nothing inappropriate or important, sir.”

“That wall must be very interesting, to hold your attention for ten minutes.” The Commander sits in front of him. “Is there anything you would like to discuss?”

“No, sir,” he lies. “Actually… I feel like this conversation ended very differently before.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” His thighs begin to ache. “I kinda feel like one of those old VHS tapes. Someone rewound me too often, and now I’m starting to skip scenes. You don’t think it’s ADVENT’s doing, do you?”

The Commander is quiet for a while.

“No,” his superior says finally, “I don’t.”

 


	3. Stage 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war draws to an end, and uncomfortable truths are had.

“Okay, Amanust, null lance that Andromedon,” the Commander says. “It’s right in front of you, you can’t miss.”

The Magus misses.

“That was a 100% chance to hit.” The Commander glares at the feed from Amanust’s body cam. The Andromedon clanks away, mocking them. “This is bullshit. Solomon, fix your game.”

Before Bradford can ask what the hell’s happening, he starts falling.

 

* * *

 

“Central,” the Commander says with a gigantic grin that is entirely inappropriate for 3:31 AM CET, “the aliens continue to make progress on the Avatar–“

He throws the pillow at his superior. The Commander neatly sidesteps the projectile. “’m sorry! Please, _please_ let me sleep!”

“If we wanna stop them,” the Commander dodges a dirty, balled up shirt, “we have to move fast!”

Bradford is on the verge of sobbing. His cot is so nice and warm in the middle of an icy Serbian winter, and he has half a mind to drag his superior into the blanket cocoon with him. The Hologlobe is drafty, which makes him jitter, which makes everyone complain about his fucking flying. He just can’t win.

“Sir, ‘s this revenge, or do I have to work?” he mumbles, hiding his face in the mattress.

“Pakistani resistance leaders have sent urgent requests for aid, so that’s where we’re going next.” The Commander claps him on the shoulder. “Up and at’em, flyboy.”

The Central Officer, after 42 hours awake, feels justified in being petulant.

“It’s cold.”

The Commander drapes a jacket over his shoulders. It smells of his superior. “The Middle East is warmer this time of year. Come on, Bradford, the aliens are laughing at you.”

He groans and shrugs on the jacket. “They can laugh as much as I want, as long as I get you in–“ Bradford stops himself before dumbass fantasies spill out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry?”

“As long as I get you to stop talking about the Avatar Project,” he says quickly.

“Sounds good to me. To the Hoboglobe you go.”

“Just because I haven’t caught whoever’s stuffing those ADVENT burger wrappers into my console does NOT make it the Hoboglobe.”

 

* * *

 

“At least it’s practical,” the Commander says, peeking over his shoulder. “Though I’m not sure how you got my clothing size.”

“We do your laundry, sir,” Delela points out. “Even though it stinks, we can read the labels.”

“Point taken. Thank you for your sacrifice, Colonel,” the Commander says with a grin.

“Matching long-johns.” Bradford scoots the package beneath his newly-cleaned console. “Commander, Delela, this is something I never needed to imagine.”

“You’re welcome, sir!” Delela says. “We’re always here to keep you toasty. Well, when the Commander won’t. Otherwise–”

“That reminds me. Shen needs a hand cleaning the Skyranger. Won’t you help her?” his superior asks.

Once the voluntold soldier has left the Bridge, Bradford indulges himself and rubs his forehead to alleviate the building headache.

“I am too old for this shit.”

“Now you know how Vahlen and I felt when the men gave us matching swimwear,” the Commander says. “Cheer up. You can use them when we fly to Russia tomorrow.”

“One time. One time. ADVENT will build their facility somewhere nice.” Bradford pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m thinking the Bahamas.”

“Now I’m imagining a Sectoid drinking a mojito on the beach.”

Bradford suddenly has a vision of a Pectoid, clad in a bright red bikini, in a French Girl pose. “I could have lived my entire life without hearing that, sir.”

“All right, let’s reset to save you the trauma,” the Commander says, and the world drops away.

 

* * *

 

“It’s just a British Army sweater from the looting,” his superior says, “and I sewed on the patches. I know it’s not XCOM issue official, and it’s a bit rundown, but… I thought you’d appreciate it over the long-johns.”

He runs his hands over the wool. Yes, it smells musty, and a bit damp, but it’s just like the old base.

“…Thanks, Commander. You really didn’t have to.” He slips the v-neck over his head. It’s one size too large, just like anything Army-issued. “Just like the old days,” he says, shaking his head. “Nothing ever fits or works.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to mod–“

“That’s not what I mean!” Bradford says quickly. “I was thinking about my Army days. Everything was held together by duct-tape and paperwork.”

“Whereas with XCOM…”

“Whiskey and duct-tape keep the Avenger flying.”

“Seems war never changes,” the Commander laughs, and ducks the swat of his hand.

 

* * *

 

They’re lounging on the Quarter’s sofas in a rare moment of peace, when the Commander speaks up.

“John… out of curiosity. If you had the chance to rewrite history – save the soldiers from dying, keep the Council from surrendering – would you do it?”

“Of course I would. Why wouldn’t I save thousands of lives?”

The Commander stares down at the table between him.

“I’ve fucked up many times,” his superior says. “And – I wonder what would happen if I could reset time. Sure, there wouldn’t be ADVENT, but… would we really be better off? There was ISIS, ocean acidification, and that whole clusterfuck in China, and don’t even get me started on the election…”

“I think we would’ve figured out something.” He gestures at the doorway, beyond which lies the soldiers’ quarters. “There’s a lot of orphans on board. They could’ve known their parents if it wasn’t for ADVENT’s Resistance strikes.”

“True,” his superior says slowly, “but there are people alive today who wouldn’t be otherwise.”

“Take away ADVENT, and we’d have soldiers who could’ve made something else out of their lives.”

His Commander blows out a breath. “I don’t know, Bradford. Sometimes I wonder if it’s cheating the men out of a noble death. You only get one death, and you might as well choose how to die. Constant resets… that’s got to fuck with a man’s brain.”

“Are you saying resetting is cheating?”

“If someone reset a game of Civilization until they could nuke Gandhi, wouldn’t you consider that cheating?”

“No. In the end, no matter how you earn it… these men are still alive. They’ve got a future because you made that choice to rewind. Sure, you’ve only got one death, but you might have fifty, sixty years to make a legacy that will help people long after you’re dust in the wind. Life is the greatest gift of all. To give it, instead of taking it, no matter the cost…” Bradford shrugs, suddenly very conscious of the blood flushing his cheeks. “Anyways, that’s just my opinion. Feel free to ignore me.”

The Commander nods slowly. “I see… I’m sorry, you must be wondering what brought this on.”

He waits for his superior to speak.

“I… was just wondering what could have been, if we had won the war.” His Commander looks him over. “You wouldn’t be a soldier. You’d probably be some general or diplomat, trying to ensure that people didn’t misuse plasma weapons.”

Bradford shudders. “Bureaucracy. Exactly what I wanted.” He closes the distance between them and sits at his Commander’s side. “But I could see some benefits of you not being my boss.”

“Such as?”

 _Things good soldiers shouldn’t do_ , he thinks, eying the crescent scar on the Commander’s throat. He imagines twin bruises, flanking the marred skin. _Wonder if a hickey there would hurt._

“Not being dragged out of bed, to the tune of _aliens are making progress on that damn project_ ,” he says finally.

“I’m hurt.” The Commander nudges him. “I thought we had something special.”

“I’m pretty sure we do.” He playfully pushes his superior. “It’s called, killing ADVENT, kicking ass.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They sit together, remnants of a dead past.

 

* * *

“I can’t believe I have to say this.” Bradford rubs his forehead. “But there is nothing going on between the Command staff. Stop the rumors, stop _accidentally_ locking the Commander and I in the Quarters, and absolutely stop the _Central just wants the booty_ jokes. XCOM is not comprised of pirates, and I am a professional, unlike you fuckers.”

“So I’m guessing we should cancel the date night?” Kelly asks.

“Yes. Absolutely. Why did you even think that was a good idea, soldier?”

“Someone needs to get laid,” Melnick mutters to Amanust. “Anal would loosen up his anal-retentive ass.”

“Someone just volunteered to scout the next Scanning Site,” Bradford says, glaring at the Ranger. Melnick groans.

 

* * *

 

Leong slots his rifle into the Armory. “Sir… I think I should go off the Combat Roster.”

“Is something the matter, soldier?” Bradford asks.

“It’s… I just dream of dying over and over again, and it doesn’t stop…” Leong shudders. “I shouldn’t be alive. I shouldn’t be here. But I can’t stop – I think of dying a million times, and it’s always in my mind, and I can’t concentrate–“

“All right, soldier.” The Central Officer puts a hand on Leong’s shoulder. “I’ll remove you from the list. Go see Tygan – the Doc probably has something for you.”

“Thanks, sir.” Leong salutes, and nearly sprints off.

 

* * *

“Kelly, skull-mine that Codex,” the Commander orders during a train raid mission.

“Sack-jacking away!” the Ranger cheers and rushes the static-laden creature. The Codex attempts to turn, starting its teleport sequence. The skull-mine comes up, catching the Codex at the base of its spine. In seconds, Kelly has access to the Avatar Project.

Which turns out to be an actual Avatar.

It takes immediate affront to Kelly summoning it. A ball of psionic energy gathers between its hands.

“Suleiman, take that shot!” the Commander says.

The gunslinger’s hands are shaking as he readies his sniper rifle. Maybe all the pressure has finally gotten to his head. He looses the shot.

Instead of drilling the Avatar through the head, the jet of hot plasma smacks Kelly in the back.

“I can’t believe it!” Kelly yells, “he finally missed!”

“…Suleiman, I believed in you. How could you?” the Commander says, and suddenly, Bradford is falling.

  ****Reload save 27:** **Train Raid, Regina, 147:22:18****

“Suleiman, rapid fire,” the Commander orders.

The two shots drill through the Avatar’s plated chest, wounding it long enough for Kokoren to unleash saturation fire on the creature. SPARK-001 sends its BIT to drop an explosive at the aliens’ feet. The rest of the team takes their shots. By the time the Avatar has finished charging up a devastating area of effect attack, it’s almost dead.

Kelly seals the deal by slashing it.

“Ha! For all your smarts and weapons, a length of steel beats all!” she crows, planting a foot on the alien’s chest.

“That’s what Central said to the Commander last night,” Leong whispers to Melnick.

“You realize we can both hear you,” Bradford says. He can almost hear the two soldiers blanching. “Looks like someone just volunteered to clean up after this thing’s autopsy.”

“Great, someone’s gotta bring the troll doll into Skyranger.” Amanust prods the corpse. “Welp, not my job. It’ll get blood everywhere. Do you know how hard it is to clean this armor?”

“Can’t you psi-puppet it in?” Kelly asks.

“That’s creepy, and no, I can’t.”

“I will lift it,” SPARK-001 says, and hoists the corpse over its shoulders. “Lily knows how to clean this chassis best.”

“It’s good to know my dad’s last gift is a glorified donkey,” Chief Shen says. “Who else would do the heavy lifting around here?”

 

* * *

 

“That was different,” Bradford says, staring down chief scientist and engineer. His knuckles whiten on the dissection table. Every neuron in his brain screams, _this is too big a risk, you’ve seen soldiers die, you’ve already lost the Commander once._ “The stasis suit–“

“Created the perfect interface specifically tailored to your specific biology, sir,” Dr. Tygan says, looking at the Commander. “Of any human candidate, you are the most likely to survive.”

The Commander doesn’t say a word. His superior exchanges a glance with Lily, then returns to looking at Tygan.

 _Why won’t you fight?_ Bradford rages. _This isn’t the end!_

Bradford locks eyes with Tygan. “Most likely isn’t good enough, Doctor.”

“It is the only way, Commander,” Tygan says, “and our only option to traverse the alien portal.”

“We need to come up with a game plan before we charge through the enemy’s front door,” the Central Officer says, and hopes it masks his desperation. Lily nods in approval. He turns to his superior. “Which will give you time to think, Commander.”

_And time for me to convince you otherwise._

 

* * *

 

“Shen agrees,” the Commander says in a no-nonsense tone, “and we’re running out of time. We don’t have any–“

Bradford paces back and forth. The bar beckons to him, but he needs his mind clear. Drunken ramblings will not impress his superior.

“Send in our tactical brain? Are you crazy?” Bradford waves his hands. “There’s a reason you stay on the ship, sir, and that’s because you’re too valuable an asset to gift wrap and send through their front door! Our Psi–”

“I will not risk our Psi Officers. We need them on hand for the final assault.” The Commander sips some whiskey. “The war began with me–“

“So it’s your duty to end it? Is that what you’re going to say?” Bradford stamps a foot. “We don’t know if the aliens have multiple HQs. We send you in – you die – and then I have to lead XCOM! Do you remember how I FUBARed operation Devil’s Moon?”

“My position gives me insider knowledge. I believe I know how they work–“

“That’s not good enough!”

“Are you _doubting_ me, Central Officer Bradford?”

“Doubting you? Doubting you. Of course. Why else would I spend twenty fucking years – while everything went to hell – looking for you?” Bradford jabs his superior in the chest. “I drank my fucking ass off because I thought I failed. I’ve killed all the ADVENT I got my hands on, I nearly got strangled by Vahlen’s pet Viper to find another scientist for you, I built this XCOM to leave to you!” he nearly screams. “God, I wonder why I don’t want to lose you!”

A heavy silence sits over the memorial bar. Bradford whirls around, and spots Suleiman, Kelly and Melnick standing in the doorway.

“You three. Scram.” The Central Officer jerks his thumb at the corridor. “If I catch _a word_ of a ‘Central wants the booty’ joke again, I’ll have you polish the entire armory. Twice. With toothbrushes.”

The three soldiers salute and scramble away.

His shoulders slump. Bradford sits on a stool, suddenly exhausted.

His Commander offers him the bottle of whiskey. For once in his life, he pushes it away.

“You feel quiet strongly about this.”

“The screaming didn’t prove that?” Bradford buries his head in his hands. “I – sorry, sir, that was very unprofessional. It will never happen again.”

He peeks through his fingers. The Commander’s lips have curved into a cross between a smirk and an exasperated smile.

“I think you’ve promised that many times, but never quite carried through."

Bradford remembers falling.

“I probably have.”

“John…” His Commander says his name fondly and puts an arm around his shoulders. “Even if I die, we will have provisions in place. You were in the army. You know that redundancy is built into every system. A Resistance held up by only a few pillars is sure to fall. You will get by.”

“How the fuck is that supposed to reassure me?” He leans into the embrace, too tired to put on the veneer of professionalism. “I don’t want to bury you.”

“You won’t have to. This is the only way to go forward.” He feels his Commander’s chest puff out, as if restraining a laugh. “Railroading, if you will. I think the Elders have designed this so that I will return to them.”

Bradford lets out a strangled laugh. “Great, now the Elders sound like obnoxious game devs. I should absolutely ship off my best friend into a death trap.”

“I can spend a few days in the Psi Lab,” his superior says lightly. “See if I can make a real-life save state. Nerf this, ADVENT.”

“The men would probably love a MLG XCOM.”

“I can see it now.” The Commander waves a hand. “XCOM, sponsored by Bud Light. TAS runs of the alien base. Airhorns every time our soldiers actually hit something. Epileptic flashes of light if they kill it. Head of the league is determined by 360-no scope kill count.”

“Thanks, sir, I think you just gave me cancer.”

“See?” The Commander nudges him. “It won’t be the end if I die. You still have men willing to fight for you. And the cancer, but that’s another problem.”

XCOM’s Central Officer shakes his head. “Commander, were you even listening? That’s not why I’m upset.”

“I may have been distracted by the thought of cheeki-breeki Mutons. And the Avatar Project. By the way, have you heard the aliens are making progress on it?”

Bradford exhales a shaky breath. “…9 billion people on Earth, and I fell in love with a Doritos-encrusted, Mountain Dew chugging nerd. Just my luck.”

Silence sits over the bar, as Bradford realizes what he just said.

“Want me to head to the Psi Lab, and get on that resetting business?” his Commander asks.

“For fuck’s–“

Bradford grabs the Commander by the waist, and pulls his superior in for a kiss. It’s rough and messy, but in that moment, he concentrates on the steady heartbeat beneath his thumb.

 

* * *

“Not on the bar,” the Commander gasps, swatting away his hands.

“Not a lot of time left.” He bites down hard, on the column of that throat, next to the crescent-shaped scar. His Commander moans. “The men won’t be back. They’ve had a betting pool on this, they definitely won’t interrupt us now.”

“True – fuck, _Central_.” His Commander returns in kind, drawing a groan out of him. “I– wait, let’s get to the Quarters.”

“Why wait?” He undoes the clasp of his weapons harness. “I’ve waited a long time, Commander, I don’t want to waste any more.”

“For one, the men are probably taping this,” the Commander says dryly.

He grins. “We could teach the upstarts something.”

“I’m not into voyeurism either,” his superior says, gesturing at the Memorial Wall, then to the picture of Vahlen, young Bradford and old Shen.

Bradford grabs his Commander and marches them towards the door. “I’ll just have to have you all to myself then.”

“Oh no. Nerf this, too OP, I’m swooning.”

“XCOM was a mistake.”

 

* * *

 

“Mind learning how to reset time anyways?” Bradford yawns, hands lazily carding his Commander’s hair. “Wouldn’t mind reliving this.”

His superior laughs and kisses him. “You’re an old man. I don’t know if you’d be up for round two.”

“I’ve still got it.” His hands slide down, over the traps and lats, following the line of the spine to his Commander’s ass. “What do the men say? ‘Knock me down and I’ll keep getting back up.’”

“We’ll see about that later.” His Commander throws a leg over his hips and pulls him closer. “Who do you think won the bet?”

Bradford buries his face in the curve of a neck marked by tiny bruises. “Would’ve guessed Rosalez or Bešlagić, but they’re dead… Not Leong, that kid’s like a brick wall. Melnick or Kelly. You?”

“Suleiman. Girac’s a close second.”

The Central Officer laughs. “I’m pretty sure those two have never kissed.”

“Have you seen some of their stories? They’re not innocent by any means!”

“I don’t need to know if my soldiers are amateur EL James, sir.”

“Who?”

“Let’s pretend I never said anything. You’re good at that.”

His Commander swats him over the head. “When half of the words out of your mouth are ‘ _civilians left and right!’_ and ‘ _progress on the Avatar Project_ …’”

“Fine, I won’t nag you on that anymore.” Bradford grins. “There’s an incentive to keeping my mouth shut.”

“You want me to learn how to reset time or not?”

He kisses his Commander. “I wouldn’t mind having more time.”

 

* * *

 

“SPARK-001 won the pot?!”

“And by extension, Chief Engineer Shen. I believe that bypasses the _no Command staff betting_ rule.” Tygan shakes his head. “If it makes you feel any better, I did not participate.”

 

* * *

 

The Informant calls in, and tells them they’re out of time.

Lily is condensing all their proof of ADVENT’s lies and atrocities in the lab, as well as readying the suit. Tygan is engineering the feedback pulse. The Commander is heading a strike team to assault the ADVENT Network Tower. Bradford – when not advising the Menace Team – is more or less writing the Commander’s will. Should the Commander die, Earth will most likely be condemned. It will be up to Bradford to lead the Resistance to the bitter end.

 

* * *

The last time Bradford sees the Commander, his superior is already encased within the astronaut-like suit. Lily is busy adjusting valves, checking neural connections on her tablet and making sure the portal is stable. Doctor Tygan is ready to upload the Commander’s consciousness. The men for operation Leviathan are already waiting outside the Shadow Chamber. All they need to do is create their own Avatar.

Bradford doesn’t say, _I don’t want you to go_ , or anything that could disrupt the Commander’s concentration. This is not the time for soppy goodbyes or last-minute regrets. They are professionals, and if one should die – well, he’s pretty sure they’ll find each other in this same situation again. Time has a funny way of looping around the Commander.

“Initiating network connection,” Lily says.

The Central Officer looks away from the operating table. This is the make-or-break moment that decides if his Commander lives or dies. Fear coils around his gut, insidious as any Viper.

He decides cowardice is not the answer, and looks his Commander in the eyes.

“Give’m hell,” he says.

The Commander nods. In its tank, the Avatar begins to move.

 

“It won’t be easy. But you’re used to that.” Bradford watches the Hologlobe turn, little circular discs representing ADVENT assaults popping up all over the globe. You did what was needed, and you never gave up the fight. You’re XCOM. You’re gonna end this. Humanity is counting on us, people.”

He whispers, _good luck, Commander_ , and hopes his superior will hear.

 

* * *

Bradford has never been more grateful that the Commander has both Sniper and Ranger training. Despite spending only a few minutes in the Avatar, the Commander is a good Psi Officer – not the leagues of Amanust or Leong, but what his superior lacks in diversity is bolstered by sheer power. Still, his superior can only draw on psionic powers after a cool-down period. When psionics won’t suffice, a good pulse of plasma solves the problem.

The Elders do their sweet-talk routine, trying to sway his superior over to their side. They summon their own Avatars and hordes of slaves to put down the best and brightest of XCOM’s soldiers. But XCOM has always been used to overwhelming odds. Shots that should have connected end up missing. Explosions that would have killed Melnick happen when the soldier is no longer in range. Suleiman’s aim is flawless. It’s as if some benevolent God looked down on them and said, “Let’s tip the odds in XCOM’s favor.”

That is, until the Elders summon a horde of Berserkers.

The massive, angry aliens charge up to the Commander’s Avatar. His superior summons a Null Lance that shreds the Berserkers’ bodies, but it’s not enough to kill them. Suleiman is too late; Melnick is too far away; Kokoren can’t see from her position; Lee discharges his GREMLIN’s capacitors but it’s too late and too little.

“Commander!” he cries, but the Avatar’s body is crumpling on the alien floor, and Bradford is a thousand miles away.

He knows he’s falling, but he embraces the fall.

   **Reload save 01:** **Operation Leviathan, 152:03:47**

 

“Why continue to cheat?” the Elder that calls itself Angelis asks. “What good is it to earn victories that were not rightfully won?”

“Don’t listen to it, Commander. Just more alien lies!” Bradford says.

“You went to Legendary, but you couldn’t handle the change in difficulty,” Angelis says. “You had a better ADVENT, increased pod size, additional Dark events, increased mission variety – you could have spared your soldiers the suffering, had you not been so arrogant. A poor player of this game.”

“The aliens are just trying to shame you for some reason. We worked hard – no matter how we earned that victory. Don’t listen to them!”

Another Elder laughs. “And what about after this war? Will you really lay down the controls, and let your men rest? Or will they be plunged into a new wave of foes, more sacrifices for your altar? Will you reload and reload, until they no longer remember their names? You are not so different from us. You have chosen ascendance in another form. Come back to us. This Earth is yours to rule.”

“…Commander?” Bradford asks. “All the times that I felt like falling… that was you reloading? You were changing time itself?”

“Even your second-in-command deserts you,” Angelis says. “There is no place for a cheater with your friends. Come back to us, and take your rightful place. You defeated them once before, and will do so again.”

Bradford watches the battle rage silently.

_So all of our suffering… The Commander wanted a challenge and put us through this. The Commander’s lived through this before, and… still went through it?_

One of the Avatars walks over to the Commander’s. It holds out a hand.

“Join us. Bring this world under your command,” Angelis says.

The Central Officer’s tablet beeps urgently, indicating the Commander’s brain has displayed unusual amounts of activity. Those particular brainwaves indicate a message or an order.

It’s a message to all XCOM units.

 

 _I did what I could. I have made bad choices, yes. I don’t deserve forgiveness, and will not seek it. But I have never wanted anything more than to free this world. I will die to see it done_.

 

Bradford looks up at the soldiers’ body cam screens. They stand still, guns hanging loosely in nerveless hands.

The Commander’s Avatar raises its rifle, and shoots the other Avatar point blank. The Avatar and Elder scream in unison. White brain matter spills over the alien floors. Chryssalids swarm towards the Avatar, attracted by the promise of flesh, but the Commander’s Avatar summons a Void Rift and wounds the majority.

 _The world is theirs_ , the transcription on his tablet reads. _Leave humanity alone_.

 

Bradford remembers the Commander’s promise, from so long ago in the Quarters.

“What are you waiting for, men?” he barks. “Help your Commander out!”

 

His Commander is a whirl of psionic power and bullets, effortlessly mowing down packs of Vipers and Troopers with ease.

Moments like these take his breath away.

 _Now I remember why I chose to follow you_ , he thinks as the Commander pins in the last Avatar. One shot to the kneecap distracts the Avatar, leaving the way clear for Ivanova to grenade it in the face. _And I’d do it all over again_.

 

* * *

His Commander is almost corpse-like when they finally wrestle the suit off. Pale eyes, the irises turned violet, stare sightlessly at the ceiling.

“C’mon, Commander.” He grips his superior’s wrist, barely catching the faintest blip of a pulse. He doesn’t dare do anything more with Shen and Tygan still in the room. “Mission accomplished. We’ve got other Resistance Havens to help. Let’s go.”

Still no response.

Bradford chokes back a sob. “Damn it. Do I have to pull out the bad jokes? Are you stuck in a loading screen? C’mon, Commander, you can’t do this to us.”

The pulse beneath his fingers strengthens into a steady beat. He looks into his superior’s eyes – they are once again their original color, not psionic purple anymore.

“I can’t believe it.” Bradford shakes his head. “Of all the stupid things – you Doritos-dusted _nerd_ …”

His Commander sits up slowly, but is still silent.

“Sir? You still with us?”

Slowly, his Commander exhales. “I… took a while to shake the Elders off. Sorry. Kept you waiting, didn’t I.”

“Are they still alive?” Lily asks, “after all they’ve done?”

“No.” His superior looks at him, the message clear: _talk to me later_. “Please, help me up. The men will want to celebrate. Thank you, Chief Shen. Dr. Tygan. We couldn’t have done it without you two.”

 

* * *

“All right, somebody’s gonna come clean,” Bradford says as the door to the Quarters slides shut. Alcohol buzzes away in his veins, his back still aches slightly from overenthusiastic slaps (the Commander wasn’t kidding, Melnick does have Berserker blood) but overall, he’s feeling pretty good. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to apologize for what I’ve put you through.” His Commander’s fingers flex, weaving intricate patterns through the air. “I… originally did not use the rewind powers because I feared the possible side-effects. We lost thirteen soldiers permanently because I was scared. After hearing the men’s tales… I am glad they are alive, but I hurt them, and that can’t be forgiven.”

“Well, now you can’t give me shit for reminding you about the Avatar Project.” Bradford grins and sits down by his superior’s side. “Didn’t give me cancer, but I did get Alzheimer’s.”

“You’re taking it rather well.”

The Central Officer shrugs. “I’m your second-in-command. As long as you fight the aliens, no matter what you do, I’ve got your back. It might just be a game to the Elders, but it means something to me.”

His Commander grips his shoulder. “Thank you, John. For everything.”

Bradford glances at the Commander’s bedroom. He thinks his superior gets the hint.

“You mentioned the Elders were gone,” he says, pulling his Commander off the sofa. “But there’s still something you’re worrying about.”

“The war is not over.” His Commander quells his groan with a kiss. “Though I promise you, I will never reset our victory… there’s still a terror in the depths. We might have to commission entirely new weapons to fight this menace.”

“We might have to form a bureau to deal with that,” Bradford muses. “XCOM can’t be everywhere at once, and we still have to get governments going.”

“A true soldier.” His Commander undoes the buckle on his weapons harness. “Bureaucracy, dicks, drills, and forms for everyone!”

“What was that middle one?” he asks, tugging off his boots.

The Commander shucks off the dark grey tunic. “Drills?”

Bradford sighs and embraces his superior. He buries his face in the crook of his Commander’s neck. “The things I put up with to save the world.”

“Ready for the next wave?” his Commander asks.

“Right behind you, sir.”

 


End file.
